


Inevitable and Unyielding Beauty

by orphan_account



Category: Homestuck, MSPA
Genre: AU, Clowns, Original Characters In-clade with one-another, Other, Spec, Violence, indoctrination
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-10-09
Updated: 2012-10-20
Packaged: 2017-11-15 22:58:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/532715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You are Rembrandt Grimhorn. One day they will call you Highblood. You will grow into your properly Mirthful name Kurloz, and lovingly embrace the Makara lineage. The maggots will spit and mutter of the Hemopope. They will shudder and whisper Subjuggulator. This is your story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Pennants and Flags

_(Remmy is 5 sweeps old)_

 

The sea is the voice of lullabies and it is a melodious counterpoint to dayterrors. To a wiggler drifting in a recupracoon fashioned out of discarded nautilus shell, the cadence of the song changes in rhythm with the tide, fast and then middling slow. The tune changes to the whim of the dual moons while the bright light of their faces often burns the sensitive eyes of the young. All of this is miraculous. The world is painful and sharp and occasionally supersaturated and yet it remains miraculous.

 

When your hive was built, you instructed the drones to hide your sleeping chamber away from points of egress, both for reasons of safety and your eyes. It is in this place that you sleep, as twilight settles across the horizon of the Imperial sea. Instinct brought you to this place, where other highblooded wigglers settled. The sea called out to you louder and more insistently than any other building place, and so perched on the cliffs, your abode stabs itself into the rock face in blatant defiance of gravity. It is also terrifically handy for lusus access-- whenever the capricorn deigns to make an appearance.

 

Moonrise heralds consciousness. Never one to wake quickly, you lay head balanced along the smoothed lip of the cocoon and contemplate the dark around you. There are things to do today, of course. Always a number of things queued themselves for you at any given evening. As an aristocrat there are fathomless amounts of lessons that must be attended to—vids and classes on manners and form, on the economy, on astrophysics, gerontology, and tactics. The sheer amount of knowledge expected of you often prompts migraines. The heavy burden of the future of your race exerts pressure that lingers for hours, crowding out other, more pleasant thoughts. That was to say nothing of your religious studies. If one was to become an appropriate shepherd of a race one must be adept in all things. You are a highblood, you must be intelligent, graceful, ruthless, and strong, with a soul tempered like the alloys that carry the ships into space. You have been assured by your online cerulean tutors that all of your learning will mold you into the person that you should be – secretly you don't care. It is just nice once in a while to have another troll smile at you.

 

The studies for eventual inclusion to the Messiahs takes precedence over biological functions of lowbloods. There was also the matter of a time limit on your latest instructional video; and you could not say for certain that it does not contain some sort of explosive consequence if left unattended. More incendiary things had been known to happen. Many a husktop had given its life to the altar of time-sensitive education and cranky instructors. Hauling yourself out of the cocoon, you smooth the sopor out of your hair and flick you hands down into the pool at your waist, divesting yourself of the excess. Evening, and all was going to be fine: the feeling surrounds and permeates you. Setting the wardrobilizer to scramble, you come out in a utilitarian black shirt and gray pants combo with your sigil emblazoned in an accent color at your wrists. Good enough to work in, not fancy enough to entertain company. A sudden bang adds itself to the sound of the waves and it is a welcome sound. Perhaps the old goat has something good. Knowing the crazy thing, it could just as easily have brought you another broken ship rather than food. The surprise of finding out what the present would be was often as exciting as the strife that it took to claim it.

 

Claiming a club out of a balance-based modus, the smooth handle is a comfortable weight in your hand. Out of the precariously-situated gallery the club was the weapon best suited to lusus-combat. A sweep ago, young and clumsy and stupid, one of your battles had scratched one of the capricorn's eyes. The kitchen knife previously favored gave its place to the blunted club also used for Messiah training. From that time he was slightly less accurate at bringing sensible things back to the hive. Blunt edges assured your combined safety.

 

Stepping down the shallow stairs leading toward the viewing platform over looking the sea proper, the stone beneath bare feet rumbles at your guardian's bleats. Shoes were a subject of ongoing contention, but your toes craved emancipation. The sight of your purple-painted toenails so enraged your guardian that you are the lucky recipient of not one, but three separate warning bites along your shins. Not only painful, they had ruined several perfectly serviceable pairs of pants. Now old enough to make your own decisions regarding your footwear (read: beat your lusus off with a club), you have come to a truce regarding footwear: you would go out with shoes on when on the rocks near the poisonous urchins, but inside the hive is a footwear-free zone.

 

Sea air rushed to hit you in the face in passing through the patio's entrance and hair flared around and covers your eyes. Sputtering a bit to get it out of your nose and mouth, you glanced up and shielding your eyes from the drips coming off the goat's mossy muzzle.

 

“'Sup old man?”

 

A bleat. The deck shook further as he drops something heavy onto it. Wincing and hoping that the limestone had not broken under impact, you advance toward the damp object, only to have the capricorn rise up warningly, making a guttural warning bark. Gripping the club more firmly in hand and centering yourself with a deep breath, you jump into the fray. For a wiggler of only five sweeps you are tall – reach longer than some of your neighbors. The width of your palms and feet show you will grow up to be taller still. When you considered the future Remmy, you liked to think that he would fill out to be strong and broad, rather than tall and gangly like some of the bluebloods that lived on the edge of the coast.

 

The battle waged mostly in silence save the blunt sounds of wood impacting on wet scales and muscle. The patio was a favorite battleground – water for the old goat to sink and rise from and railings for you to balance on and run along. It was always irritating when the capricorn broke the railings but he was generally kind enough to bring you back to the patio if you crashed down into the waves below. Otherwise, scaling the cliffs was always a refreshing and brisk beginning to the evening, barring the occasions when bones broke. This strife, no bones broke and no acrobatic pirouettes occurred. The capricorn successfully driven back toward the water, you advance on the object he delivered.

 

The fat, glistening body of a tuna flipped in death throes, partially caught inside of what appeared to be an antique holding device. Why any troll would choose to contain things within flimsy land materials confused you, but some were known to hold a taste for antique design. The ill-fated fish presumably had investigated a hole on the assumption of tasty life inside of it and been caught. Bringing the club down with precision, the fish stilled-- the old goat always let things flop around for you to sharpen your hunting skills. Noting the pacified tuna, he blinked his good eye at you, brushing against you in a precarious nuzzle to then abscond down the cliff face to disappear below the waves.

 

“THANK YOU!”

 

Manners were lost on lusus. They did not matter. Manners would matter-you had been assured- when you reached the court and the other Mirthful. When in the presence of the Condescension you would have to be at your best. Pulling strips of kelp out of your hair and off of your horns and retrieving a knife out of your modus breakfast preparations began.

 

Cooking was a short and quiet affair, having only yourself to serve. In your more wigglerish moments you entertain daydreams of baking for a kitchen full of trolls. There would be servile blue sous-chef to help with the menu and perhaps even a few limebloods to take care of all of the preparation and breakdown. Rather than worrying about the minutiae of recipes you would combine and blend at your whim, delightful smells coming out of your oven. Those who came to visit your hive would smile and enjoy your culinary prowess and would enjoy pie and phytoplankton wine. It would all be very pinkies-up, whatever that means.

 

Another assurance that you felt dubious on is that wine tastes good. One evening your lusus had brought up an unopened bottle with other assorted sundries and after checking to see whether or not it was still sealed, you had tried some. Apparently adult trolls liked to drink things that tasted like fuel mixed with fish. After gagging and washing out your mouth you had been profoundly grateful that no other had witnessed such an uncouth moment. Mercifully there were a few sweeps to get used to the taste because at the palace that was all they drank. All of the video feeds and news articles confirmed the fact.

 

Tuna filet on a plate and a few seaweed-wrapped tidbits next to it, you later tucked up in a chair with your husktop. A few others were on this early in the evening, but out of your circle of acquaintances there were few that rose as early as you did.

 

—  MirthfullyMalignant [MM] has started trolling OctogonalOracle[OO] —

 

MM: It iS UnUsUaL To sEe yOu uP So eArLy. It'S bEtWeEn mOoNrIsEs. WhAt aRe yOu dOiNg?

 

OO: It is looking to 8e a delightful time to divest those around me of the things that ought to 8e mine. The weather is looking good, second moon's going to 8e covered in clouds.

 

MM: ThIs kInD Of bEhAvIoR Is rAtHeR UnScRuPuLoUs. YoU KnOw tHaT RiGhT?

 

OO: Couldn't care less.

 

OO: Though I should, I suppose, if you want me to care oh High One? :::;)

 

MM: PaRt oF YoUr cHaRm iS ThAt yOu cOmPlEtElY DiSrEgArD YoUr sTaTiOn iN LiFe. I FiNd iT EqUaL PaRtS OfFeNsIvE AnD AdOrAbLe. No, Do aS YoU WiSh. ThOuGh i dO WaNt tO KnOw hOw iT Is tHaT YoU FiNd aLl oF ThE BoAtS ThAt yOu pLuNdEr fRoM In tHe fIrSt pLaCe.

 

OO: That would 8e telling. A girl has to keep her secrets! Are you sure I can't convince you to come out and play with me?

 

MM: It wOuLdN'T Do. I NeEd tO StAy cLeAn aN LoVeLy fOr mY InTrOdUcTiOn iNtO SoCiEtY. i wAnT To bE In tHe sErViCe oF ThE CoNdEsCeNsIoN HeRsElF. oNe cAnNoT Be wIlLy-nIlLy aBoUt tHeSe tHiNgS. tOo iNsAnE? tHeY WoN'T TaKe yOu.

 

MM:NoT InSaNe eNoUgH? cUlLeD. i nEeD To bE JuUuUuUuUuSt rIgHt sO ThAt tHeY WiLl tAkE Me.

 

MM: ThE PeRfEcT ExAmPlE Of aN InDiGo fIt tO BeCoMe tHe nExT HeAd oF ThE MeSsIaHs.

 

MM:...

 

MM:No oNe kNoWs aBoUt tHaT, sO KeEp iT tO YoUrSeLf.

 

OO: You are a strange one. I like 8eing a8le to do what I like to whomever I like. If you really want to go through all of those hoops, I suppose I can't stop you. Wouldn't dream of it in fact.

 

MM: YoU KnOw tHaT HoOp-jUmPiNg iS WhAt i''M BeSt aT. sEcOnD OnLy tO ArT AnD ArSoN! ;O)

 

OO: It is a st8ment of profound truth.

 

MM: I ThInK I SaW YoUr bOy tHe oThEr dAy. :0 )

 

OO: I have no claim to oceanic 8oys. I simply stalk them and steal their things. >::::(

 

MM: SoUnDs lIkE SoMeOnE HaS A BlAcK CrUsH...

 

OO: EW

 

OO: NO. He's got stupid hair and stupid clothes!

 

OO: … he does have a nice gun though. I've gotta run. We will discuss my non-8lack crush l8r-- I want to know where he is. He got a new gun and I think I should own it. Getting close to time to jump these idiots. Have a good evening! We'll talk soon. Leave me a d8 on when your Introduction is going to 8e!

 

\-- OctogonalOracle[OO] has ceased trolling MirthfullyMalignant [MM] --

 

Speaking to Spinneret always made you feel bemused and a touch irritated. Profoundly atypical of other cerulean trolls you had encountered she did exactly as she wished. Unafraid of the ocean in a way that many land dwellers could not comprehend, she roamed the waves on a salvaged ship that your lusus had retrieved the parts for. Accompanying you to the edge of the cliffs and letting you hold his fins as you both dove down deep into the murky water, the thrill of fighting down through the pressure to give your friend a present had been thrilling. Maybe you were weird, but the ocean did not scare you. Most of the bluer trolls would not venture into the water, they sunk like stones. The water was your second hive – your belabored lusus had experienced quite a bit of duress in keeping you alive as a wiggler. Every chance you got, it was into the roiling body under your hive; the pressure and the noise of the waves was calming and you would never admit it to a soul, but you imagine sometimes that your sides are trying to flex and allow the shadows of your gills to function. As far as you are aware, your anatomy is not correct for such function, and there is a genetic line drawn somewhere between the purple and indigo DNA that instructs the body on its preferences toward water and air.

 

One of Spinneret 's friends was handy with building and had crafted the bits and pieces into a truly seaworthy craft. She'd mentioned that he wanted to talk to you, but was a very proper sort. Not at all as proper as you wished to be, that conversation would wait for another time.

 

Given the ability to roam the waves, Spinneret presumably spent her time harassing sailors and compiling a truly obscene trove of treasure. Your conversations are infrequent and casual enough that you aren't sure. She is your friend, but only so much – she is cautious of you. Much as you would enjoy maritime pursuits, your future called. The Introduction that she had mentioned was something of particular worry. Having never left your hive to interact with other Mirthful, you would be going toward the capitol for the first time to join the others. After being there and completing your seminary training and passing the tests you would be moved up to the rank of disciple and then slowly given the option to become a full Messiah. Either that or you would perish in training: the possibility was mentioned with regularity in your lessons. Perhaps the knowledge that death was a possibility made it less disturbing. The possibility did not disturb you in the slightest, because it was not one that would come to pass.

 

Glancing over at your list of highlighted learning for the day you clicked on the entry with the most pressing due date and got to reading, quietly drawing a tendril of hair into your mouth to worry between your incisors.

 

* * *

 

Homework completed you peeled himself out of the chair, disregarding a few flashing Trollian windows. Stepping back outside into the fresh air, the remains of the tuna awaited, a few small birds picking and fighting over the remaining flesh. Carefully chucking them back over the patio and down to the waves underneath you leaned against the railing and considered what you had learned. New strife techniques, history of court politics and how quickly one could sink or fall in the presence of the nobility. The there was studying your intensely strict rhymes and the nature of miracles. Truly there could be nothing more profound than studying the delight and beauty surrounding. In comparison to all of the stupid rules that you would have to follow, the path to devotion seemed much more appealing. Glancing over at the container that your tuna had arrived in you saw flashes of color showing through the hole.

 

Curious, you carefully pried back the splintered lid and investigated the contents of the trunk. Folded cloth lay bunched up in a soggy mess. A few crabs and other crawling things hid in its folds. Scooping the whole mess of it up and picking out a few of the smaller crabs to eat al freso, you headed toward a different patio. Once there you hung the sheets up, observing the dye-work. Some of the fabrics had leeched and distorted in the salt water, their patterns fading away while others remained quite stunning. Color was one of your favorite things, even with its unfortunate roots. Most fashion was neutral or black, making use of the easily-refined pigments in the soil. To see splashes of color was refreshing.

 

After getting them cleaned up you remain positive that you could use them for something. Eying the ruined sheet the idea for something new arrived quickly. The sheet would make interesting looking scraps and good decoration for your Introduction. Spectacle was an important part of the process. your hair was long enough that it fanned impressively and added to the height of your horns; but, if there were dashes of pigment against the black? That would look positively ill.

 

Later, as you are tapping away with Spinneret and enjoying the details of her latest conquest a thought worms its way to the front of your mind. The shape of some of the fabric niggled at you, but at the time you could not remember why it was significant. Your lusus had brought you a trunk full of flags and pennants. The sigils of ruined houses flapped quietly in the gathering dawn, drying where you weighted them down against the railings. With color being as precious as it is, you wonder why they lost their trunk, and why they had stored it in such a strange way to begin with. Any sane troll c _aptchalogue_ _d_ important things. Oh well! What was lost often ended up found by the person that needed it more. The strips of their pride would decorate you and the silent voices that they represented would add themselves to the choir that sang your praises. Really, life was going to be fantastic. You just know it. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I began this story before we were formally introduced to Kurloz or his personality. As the characters age, they'll be adjusting to be more cannon-compliant. I beg your indulgence as we get there.


	2. Incendiary Education

Your favorite instructor sits across from you, the thin plane of the screen dividing your locations. She's the one with horns that spiral almost into circles but jut out behind her just at the last second and whose glasses reflect the light of her screen and make it impossible to see her eyes. 

 

“Rembrandt, how are your studies going? How may I further bring illumination into the dark gaps in your knowledge?” You like her too, because under her rather wordy and over-verbose (you've had to look up so many words that she uses) exterior it seems like she is always teasing you, and you can appreciate someone with an aggressive sense of humor. 

 

Ruffling the papers under your nails and considering the facets of the question you decide honesty will serve you the best. “Fine. I'm wondering what is going to explode next.” 

 

The instructor's eyes light up and you catch a whisper of her incisors as she beams at you. “That is a rather excellent way to approach life, isn't it? Constant vigilance for explosive devices. One must be ready for the next strife, the next moment that will require all of your attention and focus. You never know from which direction these problems will come from.” 

 

Tracing a nail over the grooves of the keyboard, you glance up through your bangs at her-- you will need to make those hair decorations sooner rather than later, having hair blocking you vision will not do. “I think it would be more efficient use of resources if my husktop was not constantly exploding. It is a known threat, so the usefulness of the lesson diminishes.”

 

Thrumming in the back of her throat, the instructor's grin widened, patient and condescending. All adults are condescending and it is maddening. They are nothing more than overgrown children themselves. 

 

“Then take a second lesson from it, Rembrandt. Oftentimes resources are not efficiently used. Whoever can take them, takes them. Ours is a brutal life. You make of it what you will.” 

 

“Miracles everywhere, so long as you can see them. I don't try and make anything of my life at all, I embrace what it so graciously offers me.” Observing her face carefully, you wait to see how she will respond. Speaking of the magic of the world, there are two sorts of listeners. Those that understand implicitly and those that pretended to understand. The third category of those that do not care are not the sorts that require any thought at all. Your instructor's face does the funny thing you have come to expect out of those that pretend to understand. The corner of her mouth curves up and her eyes dart slightly to the left. “Miracles, most certainly, Highblood.” 

 

And there is the title that often accompanied extreme discomfort. Trolls would deflect to your title rather than your name when they did not want to discuss with you the bounty of the world. She probably is a limeblood; though the way that the screen is positioned you have not gotten a clear look at her sign. Generally your teachers are from higher on the hemospectrum. Once in a while though, you encounter one or two who have worked their way up – through quadrants or talent; and they tell you things and try and keep their instinctual fear of you and everything that you represent to themselves. The woman has nothing to fear from you, she holds the keys to a kingdom of deeper and better understanding. You want to fall into the inky, sumptuous dark and explore every corner until you are familiar with every path. 

 

“I have completed the homework for the rest of the week. Do you have any recommendations for further studying?” 

 

Considering a helpfully glowing list that appeared on a side screen, she makes a gently negating sound. “You're getting very close to your Introduction. I feel that you are sufficiently caught up that you can redirect your energy toward your seminary projects. We will be in contact once you are established in the capitol.” 

 

A trickle of unease works its way down your spine, but you put your mind to ignoring it. “Will you still be instructing me once I finish my Introduction?” 

 

The pale expression that she gives you does nothing to dissuade the vague sense of fear that you cannot banish from your thoughts. She thinks that you are going to fail. “We will have to see how it goes. I may no longer be qualified to instruct you depending on how your testing goes over. We'll see.” 

 

Reshuffling your papers into a neat pile and casting around the room for something to consider, you look back up at her. “I hope that you still get to teach me. I like you as an instructor.” 

 

“You are a more than proficient student, Rembandt.” 

 

“Call me Rem. Or Remmy. I don't like my whole name. It sounds officious.” 

 

Her eyebrows shoot up over the rims of carefully curved wire-frame spectacles. “I wouldn't dream of it. It is not appropriate to address someone of your station casually.” 

 

“I'm a wiggler almost.” You stretch your arms up over your head and look at her in exasperation. The constant fear isn't even pitiful, it is just boring and irritating—all of this bending and scraping. If she is qualified to teach you then for a few more sweeps at least she is qualified to address you on equal standing. “I still have the scars on my chest from where I shed my larval-limbs. I wouldn't say that I have a station.” 

 

Adjusting her glasses and shaking her head, the instructor's face had once more taken on the patient, sympathetic look of one who knows something unpleasant that you don't. “And yet, you and all of the other indigo and purple children that I teach are more advanced than your peers. You learn quickly, you are more eloquent. Certainly there is a gravitas to what you need to do with your lives. Given all of that, I find no problem in affording you the respect that you will eventually deserve, assuming for some reason that you do not feel owed it now.” 

 

Lowbloods were weird. There was simply no getting around the fact. “As you say Instructor. Will you be at my Introduction?” 

 

Cagey look. Rinse, and repeat. “I will do my best Rembran-... Rem. I will do my best. It will depend on a number of mitigating circumstances.” It is pleasant to have her do something for you that isn't designed with some idiotic lesson in it. Rem, you like the name – it reminds you of dreaming. The sound of it coming out of her mouth is smooth like the sounds of the waves storming the beaches in the distance. Your friends sometimes call you Remmy. Correction. Dualscar calls you Remmy and you don't yell at him for it because he doesn't care if you yell at him or not. 

 

Glancing over a tablet with some of your other assignments you note that one is flashing a perilous orange color – odd, you don't remember it being there. “Tell them that I said I wanted you there,” you murmur, tabbing over to it – only to chuck the tablet as hard as you can out the window. There is a high pitched mechanical whine that fluctuates through the air following the arc of the tablet, the processor overclocking itself and other horrific mechanical shenanigans occurring, and then a clangorous report as it explodes. Shaking your head you glance over at the husktop terminal, and your instructor's almost purrbeast-esque expression at the entire debauch. 

 

“What did I tell you,” you venture, smoothing your ruffled bangs out of your face, “horrific waste of resources.” 

 

* * * 

 

 — MirthfullyMalignant [MM] has started trolling OctogonalOracle[OO] —

 

MM: My fRiEnD, aRe yOu oNlInE?

 

— OctogonalOracle[OO] is idle —

 

MM: FfT. tElL Me wHaT TrEaSuRe yOu fOuNd wHeN YoU GeT HoMe. i wIlL CaTcH YoU LaTeR. tHe dAtE FoR My iNtRoDuCtIoN Is iN ThE MaIl i jUsT SeNt.

 

—MirthfullyMalignant [MM] has ceased trolling OctogonalOracle[OO] —

 

 

 —MirthfullyMalignant [MM] has started trolling DolorDescending [DD] —

 

MM: HeY. aRe yOu hErE? oR In yOuR WoRkShOp? 

 

MM: If yOu aRe aNd yOu hAvE A MoMeNt yOu sHoUlD CoNsIdEr cOmInG OvEr. My lUsUs cAuGhT A HuGe tUnA AnD I CaN'T EaT It aLl.

 

MM: I KnOw yOu aRe a tUnA FiEnD. dO NoT TrY AnD DeNy tHe wIlEs oF ThE TuNa.

 

MM: … AnD We cOuLd tAlK AbOuT Spinneret a bIt iF YoU'D LiKe...

 

DD: oh hey sorry about that pause important things over here as you know i was working at a vid that was flashin red at me figured i could get the dam thing done before it blew and i did

 

DD: i do like tuna and i would like to hear about my lovely spidermistress. 

 

MM: :Op YoU HaVeN'T MaDe hEr 'YoUrS' yEt. EvErY TiMe wE TaLk aBoUt YoU sHe sCrEaMs aNd tEaRs aT HeR FaCe.

 

DD: really? 

 

MM:NaH. 'M MeSsInG WiTh yOu. BuT ReAlLy, We nEeD To wOrK On yOuR SkIlLs. I ThInK YoU TwO WoUlD MaKe a lOvElY SeT Of rIvAlS...

 

DD: man im blushing over here 

 

DD: glub 

 

DD: she and i...

 

DD: the black future that i imagine is on a whole nother level but she doesnt want to give me the time of day just real playful and so fantastically mean to me 

 

MM: I Am hErE FoR YoU BrO. i'm gOiNg tO MaKe tHiS WoRk fOr yOu. I AdOrE YoU BoTh :O) i wAnT To sEe a kIsMeSsItUdE BlOsSoM BeTwEeN YoU LiKe tHeRe hAs nEvEr bEeN BeFoRe oR SiNcE.

 

DD: be back in a sec

 

— DolorDescending [DD] has gone idle —

 

Mm: JuSt cOmE OvEr. I'Ll eXpEcT YoU LaTeR.

 

 —MirthfullyMalignant [MM] has ceased trolling DolorDescending [DD] —

 

You like Dualscar. You can't exactly put why into words – the kid is a weirdo. He absolutely will not give you his name, says his privateer's title is the only one that is safe to have out in the public. Presumably the others that he will eventually go to when it is time for his ascension into the nobility do not agree with where he placed his hive or who he keeps company with. You don't care and neither does he. That seems to be the gist of being a pirate, a complete lack of regard for the thoughts and feelings of others. 

 

Where your future is assured – you will be a Subjuggulator or you will die trying, his is a bit more nebulous. Depending on which faction is in power at court at the time he may go in and serve as some sycophant to an officiator; or, if he maneuvers carefully he could be in the service of the Condescension herself. It all had to do with timing and the lessons on court etiquette that frequently explode when points of them became moot. 

 

Instead of worrying about the future Dualscar just does what he wants. Much like Spinneret he is bizarrely capable with floating craft, though there is no pressing reason for a boat in his life. The sea is his hive more so than the land-based structure that he and his lusus settled into. You have never been to his hive – it's a bit too far away and while you are not afraid of the sea, you tend to get disoriented and disturbed on long trips where there is no visible land. You only made it half-way to his hive before you had to turn 'round and have your lusus come and take you the rest of the way home. Laying on his broad, slightly slick forehead above the waves it had come as a surprise to you that day that you could be afraid of anything at all. You never had been before. However, when the land disappeared and the oddly hypnotic movement of the water closed around the small boat the pair of you had motored in, the world began to spin and you'd felt horrible. Instead of calm and receptive to the gifts of the world around you, you'd felt small and isolated, like you were drowning in the green-tinted sky and the vibrating liquid surface beneath you. Dualscar, being the true gentleman that he was had only teased you a little, saying that the sea was a vast mistress and many people got overwhelmed by her their first time. 

 

You didn't know if you would be up for a second time. Perhaps the sea would remain the mistress who had stood with the ball of her foot against your throat and slowly pressed the air out of your lungs and the life out of your eyes. You could respect a woman like that. 

 

Sitting out on the patio your lusus has made an unprecedented second visit for the perigee, his forelimbs arched over the railing and his hind legs wedged comfortably into the grooves of the rock for balance. The waves kiss at his hooves and you are once again dually impressed at his ability to balance on vertical surfaces when his general mode of locomotion is through liquids. Walking to him, palms up and body language relaxed, he answers your mellow mood with the same. Running your hands along the strong bridge of his nose and chuckling a little as the water from his nostrils mists out and around you in a chilling cloud you lean in to rest against your guardian. “What's brought you back old man?” 

 

He rarely speaks to you. When he does, only one out of a handful of times will you understand what he is saying. You've talked to Dualscar and Spinneret about their lusus and only Spinneret could confirm that her lusus speaks with her in a way that makes sense. You figure it is because you are in touch with the beauty of the universe. Your lusus, your strong and very old capricorn who has rolled and slipped through the dark secrets of the oceans and sunned on abandoned beaches where no troll will set foot in your lifetime and will not for another; your old man is a miracle. He is a strange and antagonistic gift from a stern and unyielding world. 

 

/ Fondness. Concern./ 

 

When you talk to your old man simple concepts relay more clearly than complex ones. You two do not share a frame of reference so the fine points get lost in the shuffle. Yet, feelings, urges, those you both understand keenly. 

 

“You shouldn't worry. I am just fine. One of my friends is coming over.” 

 

There is the impression of color. Your lusus understands the impression of color. First Spinneret's and then Dualscar's. You hoist yourself up against him, hiding against the curve of his jaw, near one of his gill-flaps. “Dualscar. The second one. He is coming. He's going to help me eat that tuna. I know that you like it when I give you the extra tuna, but it seems like a waste.” 

 

He bares his teeth at you, his milky eye swiveling over to where he can feel you. “You shouldn't sulk. You gave me the tuna in the first place.” 

 

/ For. You. Mine. Not Other. / 

 

Reaching up and scratching under his eyelid where you know he can't reach by himself, you shake your head. “ I'm okay. I don't need anything more. I promise you. 'm strong and I'm healthy. I'm getting ready to go someplace you can't follow me. I'm scared.” That last part slips out unbidden. You only wanted to assure him that you were growing taller than you really knew what to do with. Your horns are starting to reach toward doorways and you aren't even close to being pubescent. Some of the vids and your trainers have warned you that your adult height will be monolithic. From the way that your joints ache and your body is stretching and shifting itself you are beginning to believe them. 

 

/Scared./ 

 

He knows that word. You would never utter it out loud if another troll was so much conscious within a mile of you, but you know it may be a good while before Dualscar gets to you. 

 

You press your face into the mossy-scented brush of the fur along his face and nod. 

 

/ What scares? Will kill. / 

 

You shake your head. “Not something you can kill.” 

 

He makes a quiet thrumming noise in his throat, a warbling deep tone that makes you think of the darkness of the caverns when he first found you. It is a sound that resonates inside of your bones. 

“I'm just worried about what will happen. If I am strong. If I can pass my tests. ” 

 

/Strong. / He doesn't know what it means to be false. He thinks you are strong because he has helped to shape you that way. The concepts of aptitude and readiness are not things that he can grasp because he lives his life within each moment. In many ways, your lusus is your first and best teacher about Miracles. It would be heretical to express, but you understand the truth of it. 

 

Outside there is the throbbing pulse of someone approaching the dock at the base of your cliff. That would be Dualscar. Ramming your head into your luscus' nose you smile up at him, a mouth full of razors. “Don't worry. I'm okay.” 

 

Even if he isn't sure, he accepts your assurance, bleating out a parting sound and sliding down the cliff to slip into the water. Your friend stands very still on the dock, not making eye contact and trying not to be threatening until your lusus is completely gone. Beaming up at you, dress-cape swirling out behind him in the sea breeze, he waves up at you. 

 

“OI. REMMY. I HAVE NEWS.” 


	3. News and Uniforms

**Chapter 3:** _News and Uniforms_

 

Waving your hand over your head in an exaggerated greeting, you lean over the railing to look at Dualscar.

 

“OI.” Your voice is almost swallowed up by the sea-breeze and the sound of the gulls complaining and calling overhead but he hears you. The translucent fans of his fins tilt toward you and block the light, creating a sort of regal glow around his face. You would find him a great deal _more_ regal and befitting of your respect if he would not insist on painting a set of 'scars' over his face. Really, it almost is an invitation to give him a real set. When you tease him about it, he punches you and you really cannot say much else beyond that, given your cultish leanings. Your discipline sometimes requires odd dress. “What sort of news do you have for me?!”

 

He shakes his head, jamming his hair out of his face with the butt of his palm, walking up the dock and toward the ground-level entrance to your hive. Being situated against the ocean, there are only a few doors down there and he has the access codes to clear them. The only sort of threat that you fear from the ocean is your lusus; and if he really wants to, he just scales the walls and comes in.

 

Taking the stairs down toward ground-level two at a time your toe-claws rasp against the cool material of the stairs and you remind yourself that you need to do a little grooming and repainting. The lacquer on one of the toes has chipped and that will not do. While you don't need strict tidiness in your life – that is rather unnatural and at odds with the world – you do like having a sort of order to your chaos. So there will be a repainting sometime soon. You'll just mix up a little something, all you have to do is nick your finger over a beaker and mix in a few other pigments from the cliffs and you are set.

 

Dualscar comes up the stairs like a purple storm, harpoon out and a shit-eating grin plastered over his face. He will have his tuna or your blood and both sound fine. Pulling a club out of your syladex you bray a laugh out at him. You do not always mean to be loud, the fact that it is unseemly always appears in the back of your mind when you do it. Still, the adrenaline that rushes through your head when a fight is imminent makes you feel dazzlingly alive. Your jaw tightens into a smirk and you fall into a familiar stance, club held between the pair of your hands almost like a bat.

 

The hallway is not prepared for what goes down. The pair of you strife mercilessly, giggling and yelling like wigglers. He pays you the respect of aiming for your soft places, trying as hard as he can to lay you open. You are a wall that is standing between him and the places he needs to be. The pointed end of his harpoon is the key that will unlock you.

 

He is a bit faster than you, but you have a better reach. When your club connects at the junction of his fin and the back of his head the sound is thick and luscious. He stumbles hard, hitting the wall, simultaneously bringing his harpoon around to face you, not letting his guard down even though you know his vision must be swimming. Just like that, the moment stops being fun. There is a razor thin line between fun and the place that you go where everything turns into static and you stop thinking. That is not the place that you want to go with your friend. The trip there almost exclusively ends with you being the only one returning. Tossing your clubs up and captchaloguing them, you reach out and pull him into a companionable hug, licking at the blood welling up at his scalp. “I give.”

 

“Fucker,” he slurs, steadying himself with both hands on your shoulders, before swatting you away. He hates it when you give up when there is not actually a draw. “Don't lick my wounds. That's uncomfortably pale and I don't feel that way about you sir.” Even as he admonishes you, his eyes dance. If things were a little different, if one of you was a bit calmer maybe there could be diamonds between you. It is impossible though; you do not have that sort of relationship and nor do you want it. You don't pity him enough to consider him a moirail, and you don't fight with him enough to be in spades. Ashen is exactly where you fit into his life and it is comfortable just the way it is, you'll just have to find the person that gets his spade and keep them in balance.

 

Slipping your arm through the curve of his elbow you escort him upstairs, all smiles. “You'll like the tuna he caught for me, this one wasn't even stuck in a box.”

 

Tilting his head at you in consternation he smiles. “What's this about boxes?”

 

Emerging up to one of the airy patio rooms where the filets are laid out, you let his arm go. “The old goat brought me a box full of things yesternight. Full of pennants and other things and there was a huge fish stuck in it. The tuna had the same idea I did-- there were crabs in the box. So the tuna ate the crabs and I ate the tuna.” Thrumming, pleased with yourself, you wave him over to the low table and take your place across from him. “So. Spill. You have news for me.”

 

Grinning, he beams around the huge bite of tuna he has helped himself to. “I have received instruction on when I am to go to the capitol. Unless I'm off the mark, I will be going along the time that your Introduction is. We'll go together.”

 

Relief courses over you like ocean water closing up over your head at the crest of a high wave. Previously when you had considered the Subjuggulators and the capitol and all things relating to adulthood it was a solitary future. Other than those who would later be in-clade with you, trolls did not have 'friends and family', a term that you had found in a historical text someplace having to do with a completely bizarre set of social connections. There were enemies and slightly more dangerous enemies; as well as superiors. While you would not consider Dualscar a friend, as that sentiment is much too pale; he is a compatriot and a companion. The sort of troll that is just a little off-kilter and does not fit neatly into the mosaic of society awaiting, quite a lot like you. “There is no knowing for sure if we'll be in the same part of the capitol. I know that the other Mirthful are weird about outsiders.”

 

Waving a fork at you idly, as if he were brandishing a tiny trident he aims his shark-leer at you again. “It doesn't matter. We'll be in geographic proximity. I can only hope that Spinneret takes it into her mind to follow us.”

 

Chuckling and grinding a bone between your molars you shake your head. “Spinneret does exactly what she wishes to do, no more and no less. If she follows us to the capitol it will be on her terms.”

 

“Well, I hope those terms guide her steps. That's all I can say.” You think that he is a fool, albeit an ambitious one. Spinneret will have no one dominate her, nor keep her tucked at heel like a flush-pet. Dualscar wants to secret her away in the water, or store her in his hive to keep her away from the world, to moon at like a prized treasure whenever he pleases. Similar to the very object of his affection, he has a stash of lovely contraband and you can imagine that she would be the crown-jewel of the horde. However, your friend is an idiot. She will no sooner become a docile matespirit than the sea will stop rolling and pitching. You think - and you are not afraid to say to him- that they would be better kismesis.

 

“I think her steps should lead her into strife with you. That is what I think.” The last of the tuna consumed, you captchalogue the dishes to be cleaned later. Some chores you do for the practice of having your hands run through the motions of a task; however, technology was invented to clean plates. Saluting you with his fork, Dualscar mutters an agreement and you stifle irritation that it did not make it into your clump of captchalogued items. “I can't say as I would object to any sort of thing along those lines.”

 

Rising off of his cushion and walking outside, his cape flared out behind him like a living shadow, caught in the wind. Watching him, just for a moment you feel a sense of weight, as if you will see the same thing again and it will mean something different the next time. Putting the feeling away in the mental storage space you keep for such portentous thoughts, you rise as well, leaning an elbow on his shoulder. You know it irritates him that you are already taller than him at five sweeps, but he keeps the irritation contained to a slight curl of his lip. “Getting a little long there Rem, you might want to consider your growth before you accidentally touch the stars early. Not seemly to act like you belong in space when you're just a wiggler.”

 

Chuckling low in your throat, you shake your bangs out of your eyes. “Who says it will be an accident?

I want to gather the universe into my arms.” And crush it. The thought is added silently. It disturbs your companion when you talk about slaughter. It is a perfectly legitimate thought to have, particularly given your station. Still, the senseless extinguishing of thousands of lives seems to sit heavy on his carefully dressed shoulders. Dualscar is more of a buccaneer-- amused by the idea of killing for sport and profit, not so much because of a duty to it. You know what your duty is, and you intend to carry it out to the fullest extent that you are able to. “You staying a while?”

 

Rubbing at his temple and rubbing some of the dried blood in his fingers, he gestures his negation. “Nah. I've had enough of you handing me my own ass. I'm not so good at the games you like to play, and your lusus doesn't like me when he can see me.”

 

You do not begrudge Dualscar's desire to remain non-concussed. “He doesn't like anyone. I don't even think he likes himself. He gets cranky just by being alive.”

 

Dualscar huffs at you, his fins fanning in an exaggeration of his incredulous gesture. “I suppose that it is one way to put it, yes.” Staying at the edge of the balcony another few moments, he turned and nods. “Soon. I'll see you then.” Escorting him down to the pier is effortless. The wind plays and tears at your hair, wrapping strands of it around your horns. Watching Dualscar settle down into the boat, you sway slightly on your feet, transferring weight back and forth, back and forth. “You'll be at my Introduction, right?”

 

Flicking his gray eyes up to you, he nods solemnly. “You have my word. Unless I'm physically unable, I'll be there. I'll be there to watch you trounce all of 'em. Or whatever Introductions entail. I must admit that I haven't paid much attention to what it is that Mirthful do for those situations.” The truth of it is something that you will save for the Introduction itself. Being introduced as one of the faithful is a show, it is a display of strength, it is a public-execution and it is above all things and irreversible statement that you are part of something larger than yourself. Not all indigos subjuggulate. Some are simply violent and stupid and overly tall. You were given these gifts for a reason. That reason very simply is to destroy whatever stands in the way of your goals and the universe that you and the other faithful seek. By the strength of your hands you will carve out a space in the universe where miracles can shine luminously. Reaching out and giving his cape a playful tweak before he motors away completely you close your eyes and consider it. Beneath your feet the dock sways slightly, moved by the forces surrounding it-- you understand that feeling intimately.

 

* * *

— OctogonalOracle[OO] has started trolling MirthfullyMalignant [MM] —

OO: I found the best things. You have no idea, really. I had a couple of friends (heh) go down deep for me. They brought me up something good. I can't wait for you to look at it. I'm not really good with computer stuff, but I'm sure that you know someone that is. 

– MirthfullyMalignant [MM] is idle – 

OO: Oh c'mon. Get back. I need to tell you about how that idiot's eyes glazed over when he finally agreed to do the favor for me. 

MM: My sweet sister you are beautifully merciless. 

OO: 'sweet sister' huh? Little different from you, Rem. 

MM: 've been up and reading the books. The more I read the more it makes sense. Everything makes sense. 

MM: So who did you twist around your lovely spider-fingers this time? 

OO: Just a couple of the darling dears from down the hiveblock. The two turquoises. They're really closer to lime than blue, but we pretend. At least I don't personally have anything to say about it. When they do the gene-checks I have doubts we will be seeing much more of them. Ah well. They know a couple of low-caste sea-dwellers. I got them to get me into the restricted section of the coast. I found the best toys. 

– MirthfullyMalignant [MM] is idle –

OO: Rem. 

OO: Reeeeeeeem. 

OO: I will talk to you later sweet boy. I'm getting my assignment for housing later today. I'll tell you where I'm likely to end up. 

– OctogonalOracle [OO] ceased trolling MirthfullyMalignant [MM] –

 

 

– MirthfullyMalignant [MM] began trolling OctogonalOracle [OO] –

– MirthfullyMalignant [MM] began trolling DolorDesceding [DD] –

 

MM: I got my Introduction date. 

MM: It's in the fourth perigee this upcoming light season. I'm sending over coordinates now. Show if you can. 

 

Closing out both windows you study your knuckles. Your hands, just for a moment seem insufficient to the task that has been put to them. Training during the light season is brutal. The light messes with your circadian rhythms, makes you slower, clumsier. It is hard to see, your pupils do not adjust well to the light. It also says to you that those placing you either want you to die or think you can take the challenge. Neither of them respond and you sigh, changing over to the tab containing your teachers. Your Threshie tutor is gazing calmly at her husk-cam, waiting for you to respond. “Mr. Grimhorn.” 

 

“We talked about this, Instructor. Remmy. Rem. Anything other than my big officious names. I'm not in the mood to be serious right now.” 

 

Pushing her glasses up her nose, she raises a brow at you. “Rem...” 

 

“Hows'about this: you call me Rem and I call you by your first name, Instructor. We'll make it more casual. What is your name anyway?” 

 

Flipping her head, somewhat irritated, she looked at him over the rim of her glasses. “It is Mali, Rem. My name is Mali. Instructor worked just fine for me. But Mali, if you must.” 

 

“I really must, chica.” 

 

Pursing her lips and not bothering to hide her irritation, the newly-named Mali glances back at you. “We are speaking now to make sure that you are fully equipped to start your transition in preparation for your Introduction. We've talked at great length about law and how it applies to the Subjuggulators, and I've observed your Strife form. You are as versatile as they would expect from a decent candidate. You are comfortable with many different types of weaponry and you seem to have a deathwish.”

 

Adjusting your knees into your chair and draping yourself forward, allowing your hair into your face you flash a grin at her. “'s not so much of a deathwish as it is an acceptance of the inevitable. Your death always walks at your side, like a little egg-twin you never had. It sees everything and it sees what's coming. If you accept that at some point it will be forcibly taking your place, then death really isn't that scary, is it?” 

 

Mali's mouth twisted into a strange grimace. “I suppose. One could argue that there is not a psychological impetus for you to be concerned about the mortal condition. Second to the aristocracy and those that we serve, you will live for sweeps beyond considering in my case. So even as you are aware of death, it is not something that is imminent, comparatively or literally.” 

 

Nuzzling your face into your forearms you shrug. “I guess you could be makin' that sort of a statement.” 

 

Mali glanced down at her tablets, reading through lists in quick and precise glances. Bringing her gaze back up to her husktop she fixes you with a steady glance. “Rem, I'm going to ask you a personal question. Under no circumstances are you required to answer me. I just have an intellectual curiosity.” 

 

“Go for it.” 

 

“You vacillate between two different speech patterns. Sometimes you sound very much like the learned young man that I have been acquainted with over the last several sweeps, other times you sound very … religious in your word choice. Which way of speaking is more comfortable to you? And why do you switch?” 

 

Closing your eyes the world around you goes pleasantly dark. Listening to the soft, wet rustlings of the grubs powering your tech, and the rolling of the waves outside you consider her question. “Why do you talk to me the way you do, Mali? If I were not Highblooded would you defer to me? If I were not younger than me would you let that note of condescension that I like so much show up in your tone?” 

Ignoring the digital hitch in your instructor's breath, you continue.

 

“Context requires adaption. There's a reason that I'm learning all of this shit in the first place, isn't there? I know you're not my philosophy instructor, but you're aware that the longer you live the more you are expected to 'direct the productivity and well-being of the lower parts of the hemospectrum.' That's great. I'll do it. As a Subjuggulator there is an expectation that you serve the mission and needs of the Mirthful over the needs of Society. That is what the seated Empress is for.” Smiling, you quietly run your claws over your pants, the sharp edges dragging runs into the fabric. The sensation makes your fingers itch to tear into other things. “Speech is how you communicate verbally. Speech communicates concepts. Depending on the audience, the delivery of those concepts will have to be somewhat different, would it not?” 

 

Mali nodded, leaning forward on her elbows, fingers absently resting on her keys. “Sure.” 

 

“When I'm full-grown those that can't understand what I'm trying to say will just have to deal with it, won't they? But for now...I am the one that has to adapt my context. I learn what I'm told to learn, I do what I'm asked. So my speech changes accordingly. If you were to ask me instead which is my preference? That would have a different answer.” 

 

Mali arched an eyebrow at you. “That being?” 

 

“Something we'll talk about at a different time. I've got my info-printout and there's a bunch of dates and things to memorize. I'm taking it that this is the last time that we'll officially be talking?” 

 

Pushing her chair back, Mali stretched her hands above her head, spine popping audibly over the feed. “At least in an instructional setting. Your specialized law and weapons training will be handled within the complex, assuming that everything goes well. I...” Typing briefly, Mali looked away. The behavior in itself was interesting. Over the sweeps, she was never one to multitask when talking to you. Some of your other instructors would hold group-sessions or work with multiple kids at once. Mali always stared you down from the other side of the screen, impassive as the judges and twice as somber. “I am in-clade with some people who are attached to the complex. So I might see you around. Maybe. You're a smart boy, keep that to yourself. Knowing me isn't going to help you.” 

 

Smirking, you shake your head, sitting up fully and addressing the husktop. “Mal, I don't need your help. I'm going to outshine my competition.” The bravado was half false and half confidence. The actual introductory phase to the Mirthful was somewhat shrouded in mystery; but, you were not put off by mystery. 

 

“Don't be stupid, Rem. What's the first rule?” 

 

“Eyes open.” 

 

“The second?” 

 

“Ears open.” 

 

“Third.” 

 

“Don't be stupid.” 

 

“Forth?” 

 

“If you're going to be stupid, hit harder than the other person.” 

 

“Engrave it behind your eyes and keep it at heart. It you were going for Threshecutioner or any of the other martial disciplines we would have trained you differently. Fortunately for you, you were pretty much born to laugh and beat people's heads in.” Thrumming with the praise, you are careful to keep your smile from showing. Killing another troll has not come up yet, but many an unfortunate specimen of fauna have met their end at your capable hands. 

 

“It's been fun, Mali. I'll talk to you again.” 

 

“Mm. Glory to her Condescension and good luck in your trials, Rem.” Eyes glittering and a disconcerting look on her face, your instructor disconnects and for just a second you see an after-image of her swirling horns left on the now-blank video-feed. Closing the husktop you look at the ceiling, letting the small amount of apprehension you feel pass through you and on its way. There is not packing to do, really. Your instructions say that everything you need will be provided and that your hive will be waiting for your return. Once the fear has passed, you curl your toes and grin, this is going to be great. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beginning next chapter, the rating on this bad boy goes up and we go into the BAD PLACE for the rest of this story. We are writing about some of the worst people in the cast, and while that doesn't mean that they aren't interesting and complex, it does mean that bad crap is in character for them. This is not a gentle fiction, and it goes some pretty dark places. Please mind the tags and be careful.

**Author's Note:**

> I began this story before we got any sort of a cannon glimpse at Kurloz. So my original naming stands, but I'll work the GHB's correct name into the story as it goes.The way that I have the plot laid out, his name is easy to fit in. 
> 
> Character-wise, stay with me. The story arc will cover up to the point that Darkleer does his duty, so we'll see a more in-character portrait of the Ancestors as we get closer to their adulthood. 
> 
> There is also a boatload of OC's in this story, but they will not take over, I promise. *grin* I just need some people to populate the world so that it's not just the main kids awkwardly interacting. To see anything of Kurloz's training, we have to have some other Subjugulators around.
> 
> There is an ask tumblr for this fic: gigglefights.tumblr.com


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